Roc Hatfield explores the world of a ruthless Cuban Drug Lord that takes Miami hostage. This scintillating, action adventure will keep you on your game and seduce you with the extraordinary lifestyles of the Miami and Cuban Socialites. Cuban Drug Lord and International Business Tycoon, Antonio Diega tears through the pages of this Novel and never looks back. Follow the story as it unfolds each week, right here in the...EDGE of PARADISE.
It's the morning shift at Metro Dade's downtown station and the midnightto seven shift is headed for home. Some of the guys stop off for breakfast at a Denny's across the street from the station, but most of the younger officers want to get home to their wives or girlfriends.
In the parking garage under the station the morning shift is milling around half heartily putting their police cruisers in order and preparing psychologically for an eight hour stint behind the wheel of an urban peace-making machine. The community's first line of defense, the thin blue line. And in Miami, one of the countries toughest cities and defacto capital of South America, that thin blue line is almost transparent. Officer James "Jimmy" O'Neiland Officer Gabriel "Gabby" Castra climb into their cruiser, fire up the high performance engine, and pull out of the garage and up onto an on ramp that merges them onto the world's largest parking lot: Interstate I-95 running North and South along the very edge of Southern Florida. This morning the traffic is moving pretty good. In 20 minutes it will grind to a stop-start pace as commuters pour onto the highway from a thousand suburban communities up and down the interstate as it passes through Broward and Dade county, Florida's densest and most populated area."Gabby, did you see the way Eric hit that ball last night?" "Yea, I saw it, and my little Melissa can hit harder than that. ""What is that supposed to mean? "
"It means my friend you need to work more with Eric." Gabby is moving the police cruiser in and out of traffic. "How's things going with you and Linly at home?" asks Jimmy, with a look of anticipation in his face as if a bowl was about to drop from a shelf. "It's good. I guess, she wants another child and I don't think we can afford it right now. I got that second job working security over on SouthBeach and we still just meet our expenses. I'm never home and Melissa asked me if I still want to be her daddy."
The three helicopters have passed over the Southern end of Miami Beach and split apart, one veering south, one north, and one out over downtown. That chopper passes near the hi- rise buildings and takes up a course overhead of the traffic on I-95, virtually indistinguishable from a traffic eye-in-the-sky copter. The pilot skillfully maneuvers the helicopter in low over the morning traffic and now has matched his airspeed with the flow of traffic. The pilot spots the Metro Dade police cruiser below and holds up his fist. The other three masked soldiers cock their automatic 10mm uzis, and check the magazines.
Gabby and Jimmy see the chopper flying just above them. "Gabby, it looks like he needs or wants to land on the highway. I'll get on the radio; you hit the lights. Dispatch, this is 118 - responding to a helicopter, appears to be in distress, may be executing an emergency landing on northbound lanes of I-95, approximately two miles north of downtown, near the Opalocka exit. Did you copy that dispatch?"" Yes 118, dispatching emergency teams now."Roger dispatch."
The pilot moves the chopper out ahead of the police cruiser and begins a slow decent to the roadway below. Traffic has come to a complete stop and the police cruiser is pulling up to within 50 yards of the grounded helicopter.
Jimmy is concerned with the fact that the choppers blades are still churning and there doesn't seem to be any smoke or other problem. "I wonder what's up with this guy, landing in the middle of rush hour traffic."
The doors on the helicopter swing open and three elite and daunting mercenaries emerge with weapons blazing. The police cruiser is engulfed in a rain of hot, ripping, tearing metal. Spent bullet casings are covering the ground as the scene turns to horrifying twisted steel, shattered glass, and torn flesh. The hail of gunfire could have stopped two minutes ago and been completely effective. But these assassins are creating terror. Two or three well placed bullets are more than enough to end a life but these destroyers are reaching for a deeper completely brutal exclamation. Suddenly, a cacophony of sounds breaks into an eerie silence. The only sound is from the tinkling of bullet casings rolling around on the pavement. Motorists have gathered their courage and are abandoning their vehicles. A full scale evacuation is underway.
The pilot has been waiting patiently aboard his jet helicopter, poised for a rapid ascent into the heavens. The three dark assassins return to the flying machine and begin to crawl aboard. The pilot yells at them above the screaming of the engine - "you IDIOTAS, you forgot to take their shirts." Two of the gunmen return to the police cruiser and drag the extremely mutilated bodies from the front seat of the now terminated conveyance. It's not a pretty site. It's, in fact, a difficult site even for these hardened, battle experienced mercenaries. Killing from a safe distance and leaving the quarry, having never to see your handiwork up close, is manageable, but having to confront the result of your efforts up close and personal is a degree different.
After dragging the officers' bodies out onto the hot roadway the gunmen have begun to remove their uniform shirts, complete with badge and name plate. Both men are disgusted by the request ,equating it with the act of scalping., the American Indian warriors tradition of cutting the scalp of a fallen enemy as an act of terror and as a trophy to be displayed later for the benefit of the tribe.
As the men leave the scene with the bullet riddled and blood soaked uniforms, one turns and tosses a remote controlled bomb into the back seat of the police car. The pilot has become very agitated and begins to lift the chopper skyward just as the men climb back aboard. As the helicopter lifts off rapidly and out away from the carnage below, a gunman takes a small remote control from his bag and punches the sole button on its face. The car below explodes into a 50- foot high fireball directly below them. The pilot follows the exact same vectors back out over the Atlantic.
* * * * *
Sitting in the crystalline blue waters just off the coast of Bimini, a small island in the dozens of tiny islands that make up the country of the Bahamas, sits an unusual looking yacht. The vessel is covered from stem to stern with what appears to be a canopy. At first glance one might think it's a giant bimini top named after the small canvas convertible tops small boaters use to keep the hot tropical sun off their heads during the hottest part of the day. But why would an obviously expensive luxury yacht need a bimini top. The boat was probably air conditioned in every room, including the engine room. It was only a mystery until seen from above, from the perspective of an airplane. The canopy was an ingenious form of camouflage. It provided a photo-realistic scene of the ocean as seen from above. An aircraft would look down and see nothing. The mural painted on the canopy virtually blended seamlessly with the surrounding water, rendering the yacht practically invisible from the air.
A young Latin man is searching the horizon with a pair of large binoculars that seem large enough to see the other side of the world or find craters on the moon. The young man is chattering in Spanish over a small hand-held radio.
Something has come into his field of view. He focuses the giant eyes and confirms his discovery. "Tres helicopteros," he shouts over his small radio.
Three black jet helicopters have rejoined and are flying in a loose formation, low over the blue water. The pilots are conversing over their radios frantically. All three birds slow and the four-man crews are exiting the airships and dropping into the ocean frogman style. The helicopters have been placed in autopilot mode and they continue to fly off into the distance. A twelve-man army is now in the sea floating courtesy of a life vest placed around their neck. One of the pilots pulls a hand-held control from his utility belt, holds it into the air,, and turns a dial. An audible tone is generated and suddenly the three helicopters in the distance flash in a brilliant ball of light. A million tiny fragments fall into the sea, making small splashes that churn and foam the salt water. All the men watch the pilot who now tosses the radio detonator into the ocean. All the soldiers have a look of disbelief on their now exposed faces, but the disbelief turns to a cheer, complete with ie...ie...ie, sounding like the wailings of a mariachi band. A deadly band of mariachis.
The celebration is short. The luxury yacht Estralla has come along side the 12-man party and the vessel's first mate has lowered a ladder normally reserved for swimmers and snorkelers. All 12 men scurry aboard.
A sultan's feast awaits the mercenaries as they arrive in the main salon of the yacht after showers and dry fresh clothes. The elaborate buffet table has been prepared by the on-board chef complete with grilled seafood, lobster tails, and an endless array of salads and sophisticated side dishes. A bartender is providing libation and refreshment. The mood has become quite celebratory, but the mood is broken instantly when a dark and well built man enters the Salon from a sliding glass door at the stern of the boat. The room is silent, a respectful gesture from these men. All eyes are transfixed on the dark gentleman as he walks to a table in the back of the room and examines a stack of blue Miami police uniforms. He picks one of the shirts up, looks at it, and places a finger thru a bullet hole. He pauses looks at the men, and begins to wiggle his finger profusely. The whole room ignites in spontaneous laughter. The men return to their eating, drinking and frivolity, it has been a long and dangerous day for these dealers of death.
Roc Hatfield is an author/producer/and recording artist who has lived in South Florida for many years. As a business executive in the 80’s he traveled and spent many months in South America and the Caribbean. His observations of the social and economic impact of cocaine and other drugs inspired him to look deeper into the issue. His work placed him in the heart of the drug industry, traveling to Medellin, Bogota, and CaliColombia frequently. Vacations in the Cayman Islands, and other Caribbean retreats helped focus
his knowledge of the banking and financial community that supports the Narco economy. All of this up close information has provided the author with a wealth of details that make his first novel an amazing and riveting look at the inside world of the Kings of Cocaine.
The cold war may be over, but the coke war is just heating up. The mayor of WashingtonD.C. caught on video using crack cocaine. South American drug lords appearing at the White House during state functions with the President. Fortune 500 business leaders engaging in cocaine trafficking. These and many more headlines blaze across local and national newspapers everyday. Just a reminder of how prolific drug use and the drug economy has become in our everyday lives.
The profits from the sale of cocaine exceed those of General Motors, Texaco, Microsoft, Coca-Cola, Motorola, Ford, Boeing and Exxon combined. The Narco dollars flow into a multiplex of business investments, real estate, private armies, and unthinkable lavish lifestyles.
World governments are paralyzed against Narco traffickers due in part to their own participation, and absorption of the ill gotten gains. The U.S. CIA has been accused recently of introducing crack cocaine into the black community in an attempt to finance various covert operations around the world. Today every government on the planet is engaged in battling against the flow of drugs into their countries, while simultaneously courting the Narco economy and its architects.
The Cold War Is Over . . . .
A Coke War Begins
Cuban native and international businessman Antonio Diega earns a lot of money, his connections within the Cuban and U.S. Government has given him clout.Diega's trans-shiping of cocaine has created an empire and a hierarchy that will stop at nothing to protect its billion dollar investments.
When a number of U.S. Senators who are knee deep in graft turn greedy Antonio sets them straight leaving six Miami cops dead. Diega's lust for South beach and its wanton women makes him vulnerable to the undercover tactics of two beautiful Justice Department investigators who want him behind bars. These seductive undercover investigators know of Antonio's dark obsessions and are not above using them against him. Antonio turns the tables on everyone and leaves a trail of death and destruction across South Florida that has never been seen until now. The violent effects set off shock waves at the highest levels of government in the U.S. and Cuba. A Cuban-American War becomes a realistic possibility . . . danger waits along The Edge of Paradise.
The water off the coast of Southern Florida is warm and calm this time of year.May is one of the best months, not too hot just warm and comfy.A light rain is moving in from the Bermuda Triangle and the sea has a slight chop.Captain Guillermo Miguel Uribe is tapping the top of a color radar screen in the bridge of his 600 foot freighter.Capt. Uribe has tread these waters a million times carrying containers from the islands to the port of Miami.'This damn thing,' he says in Spanish as he hits the box harder, "this thing works only in good weather, a little rain and it stops."The first mate jiggles the wires leading into the back of the box - how's that - comoVa.The good captain's vessel is in need of many repairs, he bought her with a loan from a childhood friend he grew up with in Santo Domingo.He convinced the friend they could become rich with the freighter by hauling freight from the Caribbean to the U.S., but after six years of hard work and struggle Captain Uribe was losing the ship to rust and creditors.
Today all that was going to change, an extremely profitable load was on the deck of his freighter. A voice cracks over a small portable radio, "Captain, are we in position?" Captain Uribe keys his mic while banging on the box once more. The radar screen becomes clear. "Yes, we are exactly at the location you desired. We have some weather moving in from the South, looks like light rain, some wind." The radio crackles and the voice is calm, "OK. Let's hope it moves around us, it's a go. Repeat it's a go." The Captain acknowledges the radio transmission in Spanish," Si Claro."
On the deck of the ship crews are moving methodically, opening 20' containers and pulling equipment from the freighters hold. Large pieces covered in black neoprene plastic are set on the deck, three in all. The crew is guiding the crane operator and the mysterious equipment is being precisely placed into position. As the crew rushes to remove the plastic covering, three shiny new helicopters are emerging like butterflies from a wintry cocoon. Three brand new McDonnell Douglas Explorers, twin jet engine "NOTARS" no-tail-rotors. One point five mil a copy. Fast, quiet, and agile. Crew members are prepping the aircraft and checking every feature. Cockpit instrumentation is being examined and a cadre of electrical switches are put into their proper positions.
The crew stops for a moment and all eyes are pinned to a door across the deck. As the door opens 12 men emerge dressed in black, S.W.A.T. like military uniforms. Each has a ski mask with dark aviator style sunglasses, not a single patch of skin is exposed. The crew returns to work preparing the helicopters.
Captain Uribe is standing on the bow of the ship and conversing with one of the masked soldiers.
"Capt. Uribe, you have been very professional and your hospitality has been exceptional." The soldier passes a nylon travel bag to Captain Uribe. The Captain immediately opens the bag and pulls a stack of bills from its interior.
"It has been a pleasure, con mucho gusto, Senor," the Captain replies. The soldiers move rapidly toward the helicopters, the blades have begun to rotate, and the smell of AV fuel has filled the air. Within seconds the noise level and heat from the jet exhaust is intolerable. Many of the freighter's crew have backed away. The pilots pull the birds one by one into the air and line up in single file as they circle around the ship, making a farewell salute. As they fly over the stern they see a crewmember removing plastic lettering that has changed the vessels name from "Artic Glass" to "Smart Girl", the ships real name.
Aboard the helicopters the masked soldiers are stowing equipment and organizing clipboards with charts and diagrams. The helicopters are moving at 130 knots, 43 feet above the surface of the ocean. 130 knots isn't fast in terms of airspeed but at 43 feet it can get your attention as the spray from the light chop mists over the windshields of the helos. Miami is only 40 miles ahead of them.
Aboard the lead helicopter the pilot is speaking in Spanish to the soldiers. The soldiers are wearing hi-tech earphones and small microphones that look like telephone operators' equipment. The pilot shouts," E.T.A. in 13 minutes, target zone in 13 minutes. Prepare your weapons, stand-by for deployment."
* * * * *
It's the morning shift at Metro Dade's downtown station and the midnight to seven shift is headed for home. Some of the guys stop off for breakfast at a Denny's across the street from the station, but most of the younger officers want to get home to their wives or girlfriends.
In the parking garage under the station the morning shift is milling around half heartily putting their police cruisers in order and preparing psychologically for an eight hour stint behind the wheel of an urban peace-making machine. The community's first line of defense, the thin blue line. And in Miami, one of the countries toughest cities and defacto capital of South America, that thin blue line is almost transparent. Officer James "Jimmy" O'Neil and Officer Gabriel "Gabby" Castra climb into their cruiser, fire up the high performance engine, and pull out of the garage and up onto an on ramp that merges them onto the world's largest parking lot: Interstate I-95 running North and South along the very edge of Southern Florida.